


Just This Once

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 10:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16324286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “She’s got you as a father. How could she be anything other than amazing?” Sherlock looked up when he felt something hot and damp fall on his shoulder, and saw John trying to conceal a fresh wave of tears. “Oh, John, don’t tell me you’re crying over that.”“Shut up,” John said, cuffing Sherlock’s shoulder terribly gently. “You’ve just given me a daughter and called me amazing by association, and I was in the middle of trying to compliment you. Can’t you just let me compliment you for once?”





	Just This Once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts), [SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John/gifts).



> So I'm getting married on Sunday and of course priority numero uno was to write some fresh Sherlock mpreg. Enjoy. 
> 
> For my future wife, songlin (happy birthday babe, by the way), and my very good friend and daughter, sincewhendoyoucallme_john.

“Well, this isn’t how I anticipated I’d be dressing for our first anniversary dinner,” Sherlock said, settling the waistband of his trousers low on his hips and adjusting his shirt.

 

“There’s going to be no shortage of jokes about ‘moving quickly,’” John agreed. He finished buttoning his shirt and looked at Sherlock in the mirror. “But I think you look as handsome today as you did a year ago. More, even. A bit of a belly looks good on you.”

 

“A bit might, but perhaps not the quantity of belly I’m currently hauling around,” Sherlock grumbled, but even he had to smile as he accepted John’s compliment.

 

“No, this looks good on you, too,” John replied, turning to give a kiss to his mate. He slid one hand along Sherlock’s broad side, coming to rest on the full curve of his hip. “Every bit of it looks just beautiful.”

 

“Stop, or my head will be too big to fit out the doorway,” Sherlock chastised, a flush coloring his cheeks. He ducked his head to hide his smile, a fruitless effort. “You’re rather handsome tonight, yourself,” he added, lifting his gaze to meet John’s eyes. The flush renewed when he saw how John was looking at him - the same way he’d looked at Sherlock a year ago today, as they held hands in front of a crowd of friends and family to declare their commitment for one another.

 

“Beautiful,” John repeated, that earnest, open smile on his face, and tipped his chin up to catch Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss. Sherlock could taste that smile - it was the best kind of John-kiss to get, one where he was smiling so wide that the corners of his mouth couldn’t reach Sherlock’s lips.

 

A little noise escaped Sherlock’s throat when John pulled back, his hand on Sherlock’s jaw - when had that gotten there, he hadn’t even noticed - and he leaned forward as if to chase the kiss for a split second before he got himself back under control. “Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from,” John assured, grinning, and patted Sherlock’s cheek as he stepped back. “Gotta save some for later, though. Sit down and let me help you with your shoes.”

 

 

 

Somewhat unconventionally, they’d decided to have a dinner with friends for their first anniversary. There were a number of factors playing into this decision - one, they almost always ate dinner together as a couple, so dining out as a couple was hardly a special change - and that’s the reason they _told_ their dinner guests. Secondarily, Sherlock was due virtually any day now, and leaving the house to go out and pay for dinner seemed a waste of money given that he’d barely be able to eat half his meal, as well as a waste of energy getting dressed, taking a cab somewhere, and taking a cab home before collapsing into bed. Thirdly, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be very far from home...just in case.

 

Molly arrived first, with a baked dish covered in tin foil. “Baked ziti,” she said, handing it to John and hanging up her coat. “Greg said he would bring homemade bread if I brought a pasta dish.”

 

Sherlock was sitting in his chair but made to stand up as Molly came closer. “No, you don’t need to stand up,” she said with a smile, and though Sherlock might once have scoffed at being treated with kid gloves, he actually smiled back and thanked her. She leaned down for a hug and he returned it, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for inviting me,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and perching on the edge of the sofa. “It’s good to see you both.”

 

“Sorry we haven’t been by more often,” Sherlock said, genuinely apologetic that he hadn’t been to the lab in some time. He missed it, rather keenly.

 

“Suppose that’s a good thing, though?” Molly said, then caught herself and explained. “I just mean - if you don’t have as many cases there, maybe crime is down, yeah? And, well, you’ve got -“

 

“Her,” Sherlock agreed, smoothing his hand over his round belly. He didn’t bother masking the smile that curled his lips at the mention of their daughter. “She’s as good a reason as one could hope for to miss out on autopsies and liver samples.”

 

“Yeah,” Molly said, somewhat wistfully. “Oh! And I brought something for her, too, I mean - I know this is an anniversary dinner, not, you know, a shower, but - here,” she said, cutting herself off and going to fetch a small package from her coat pocket. It was wrapped in pink paper and tied with a ribbon, which Sherlock delicately pulled loose.

 

It was a certificate, folded neatly. He opened it and saw a spoon, then read the text on the page. “I thought, you know, any Holmes child would be born with a silver spoon - you know the saying. But this company--“

 

“We send her fingerprints to them, and they engrave it on the spoon - and then we have a record of her fingerprints, just in case. Molly, that’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Sherlock carefully folded the certificate and put it back in the box. He didn’t even mention that fingerprinting as a means of identification is nearly obsolete - DNA is far more reliable - but John had drilled into him that with baby gifts, it’s often the thought that counts.

 

Greg arrived a few minutes later and also told Sherlock not to bother standing up, he was just as capable of saying hello from a sitting position and he had hardly ever bothered to stand up to greet people before he was pregnant, anyhow. Sherlock tossed the crumpled wrapping paper from Molly’s gift at Greg’s head when he turned to walk away, aiming perfectly. Even John had to laugh as he chastised Sherlock for his bad behavior.

 

Mike Stamford was there, and Mrs. Hudson brought up the rear, also bringing up a cake she’d made just for the occasion. It was cherry chip and pink in the middle, frosted pink with delicate piping on the edges. Sherlock ate a very, very small portion of his dinner in order to have as much cake as he could fit.

 

Conversation for the evening seemed, despite all their good intentions, to revolve around the impending addition to their family. As predicted, Mike and Greg both joked about Sherlock and John’s apparent eagerness to procreate, given Sherlock’s gravid state on this, their one-year wedding anniversary. “With a man that looks the way he does, can you blame me?” John quipped, grinning as Greg half-choked with laughter on his drink.

 

“It’ll be so nice to have a little girl around,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, bright-eyed thanks to a second glass of wine. “Running around the flat, cheering the place up. This man-cave needs a bit of a feminine touch to it.”

 

“I rather like our decor,” Sherlock said, glancing around. They’d tidied the flat quite a bit in preparation for their daughter’s arrival - Sherlock’s lab equipment was safely stowed away in locked cupboards, and he’d dispensed of several colonies of beetles and ants that he’d been keeping for research purposes and of which Mrs. Hudson had never been made the wiser. A notable addition was that of a bassinet, fully assembled, standing beside Sherlock’s chair, awaiting its occupant. They’d chosen a dark walnut stain to match some of the existing furniture, but even so, its presence - and that of the colorful blankets inside - brightened the room considerably.

 

Sherlock was pink around the ears and stifling yawns every other minute by the time everyone put on their coats to leave. He did stand up to hug everyone as they left, ignoring his exhaustion and back pain in favor of showing their guests how genuinely grateful he was to have their company for the evening.

 

Still, the second the door was shut, Sherlock was pulling his shirt out of his waistband, taking it off and tossing it aside before shucking his trousers and stretching out on the sofa. “Happy anniversary to me,” John grinned, tapping the apex of Sherlock’s belly as he walked past him to settle onto the other end of the sofa. “Dinner _and_ a show.”

 

“The world’s shortest, least sexy strip tease,” Sherlock said drily, trying to stretch out the ache in his lower back.

 

“Says you.” John plugged his mobile in to charge and set it aside, the screen dimming after a moment and then shutting off. “Foot rub?” Sherlock nodded and picked up his feet, depositing them in John’s lap unceremoniously.

 

Sherlock’s hand drifted idly over his belly as John rubbed his feet. The baby was still and sleeping inside him, normal for this time of night. “Are you coming anytime soon, love?” Sherlock asked her, tapping on his stomach. He craned his neck to look at the calendar, although he knew exactly what day it was and exactly when he was due. Last week, the half-gallon of milk they’d bought expired after his due date and he’d nearly done a happy dance inside the shop. “Your birthday is meant to be in two days, you know. You don’t seem too interested in celebrating it.”

 

“She wants to make sure she doesn’t have to share a day with our anniversary, clearly,” John said, reaching up to rub the bottom of Sherlock’s belly.

 

“That I don’t mind. I just don’t want her waiting too much longer. I’m afraid she’ll find herself getting evicted if she overstays her welcome.”

 

“I bet she’ll come soon,” John said, tracing the line of one stretch mark lightly with the pad of his index finger. He laid the flat of his hand on the hard curve of Sherlock’s belly, feeling the outline of - “What’s this bit, here?” he asked, poking.

 

Sherlock’s fingers slid down to touch the area in question, pressing in briefly. “A shoulder,” he said, then found John’s hand and dragged it just right of center. “Her spine, here. Bum up here. Heels up in my ribs,” he grimaced.

 

“Must be unpleasant,” John said, his hand resting where Sherlock left it, over the baby’s bottom. His belly had become just slightly lopsided as the baby settled, with more baby on his left side than on his right.

 

“Not unbearable. Worst when she stretches. Hasn’t done much of that the past few days, though. I think she’s realized it’s not really getting her anywhere.” He caressed his bump softly, a gentle smile on his lips.

 

“Will you let me take you to bed?” John asked, apropos of nothing.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock answered immediately. “I would enjoy that rather a lot, actually.”

 

John chuckled and stood up, taking Sherlock’s hands and helping him to his feet. Sherlock swayed for a moment as he stood, finding his balance again, and offering John a shy smile. “How I long for the days that I could stand on my own and not risk falling over,” he said, shaking his head.

 

“You’ll have that back before long,” John assured, standing up on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock’s full lips. “For now, I’m happy to enjoy your body exactly the way it is.”

 

“Sap,” Sherlock scoffed, but let John kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

 

 

\-----------

 

 

Sherlock awoke later that night to a strange, almost sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He struggled to sit up and blew out a long breath when he did, pressing both hands to his belly. He closed his eyes and kept his breathing regular, trying to figure out what had woken him up. It wasn’t a practice contraction, or any kind of pain - just a deep, unsettling discomfort in the bowl of his pelvis.

 

The instant he stood up, he realized what it was. The baby’s head, which was already far enough inside his body that he hadn’t been able to feel it for a few weeks, was now even deeper inside him, pressing heavily against the exit of his womb. He felt it as a dull ache, a deep pressure, one that made him want to bear down in a squat to relieve the feeling. As he stood and acclimatized to the feeling, the ache seemed to settle into something less urgent, but he felt different now, like somehow this change had been the last thing his body needed to do before the baby could come.

 

He padded quietly to the en suite, leaving the light turned off and feeling his way to the toilet. He sank down onto the porcelain seat with a quiet groan, leaning forward as much as he could given the bulk of his middle. With one hand he rubbed at the folded skin where his belly rested on his thigh. He could feel how the weight of her inside him had shifted - he felt fuller now, somehow. Slower. More ready.

 

“Don’t make this any harder on me than it needs to be, little one,” he murmured quietly, touching the hard line of her shoulder lightly with two fingers. “If this was your sign that you’re coming soon, I heard it loud and clear.” Of course, there was no answer, but something inside Sherlock told him that their daughter would be on her way very, very soon.

 

“Did you get...bigger overnight?” John asked carefully the next morning. Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, leaning forward and chewing slowly on a spoonful of cereal. He felt not unlike a sloth, slowly ambling from place to place and taking his time with each task - the baby’s change in position had him feeling a bit like a boat trying to turn broad-side in the sea, fighting the current with every step he took.

 

“Yes, I magically grew a second baby. Surprise,” Sherlock said drily.

 

“No, but seriously. It looks different.”

 

“She moved,” Sherlock said. “Look.” He hauled himself up, pulled his shirt up over the bump, and turned to the side, running his finger along the bottom of his belly to show John how the baby had shifted. “She’s deeper in, now. I woke up when she did it. It feels awful,” he said honestly. He’d been unable to totally shake the way this new position made him feel like he needed to drop to his knees and spread his legs wide - something about the way she was positioned inside him made him feel like his hips needed to be splayed as far open as he could get them.

 

“Dropped,” John said, and Sherlock nodded. “That’s a good sign.”

 

“I hope so,” Sherlock sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I feel like she’s going to fall out at any moment. I didn’t think I could get more uncomfortable, but here we are.”

 

“Bit more work to it than that, I’m afraid,” John said, and Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “But it means she’s closer.”

 

“Oh, trust me, I am well aware. Practically the instant that happened, these started to prickle.” He lifted his shirt the rest of the way to expose two puffy, filling breasts with darkening areolas. They were big enough now that they had a distinctive curve to them, resting just slightly on the top of Sherlock’s bump. “Feels like I’m being electrocuted very, very lovingly.”

 

“Pregnancy isn’t terribly kind to you, is it?” John asked, huffing a laugh. “You poor thing.”

 

“Pregnancy isn’t kind to anyone, but least of all me, it seems. You’re lucky I love you so much.”

 

“Trust me, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, sipping his mug of tea and looking at his husband over the rim of it. “I know just how lucky I am that you love me.”

 

\-------

 

She decided to wait two more days before arriving.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth and hovered in midair, shaking very slightly. A drop of soup dripped from the bottom of it and landed on the table, but Sherlock didn’t notice. He concentrated very carefully on the unfamiliar feeling of a cramp rolling through his belly, far stronger than the practice contractions he’d had.

 

“Oh?” John asked, turning from the sink and looking bemused. The expression dropped from his face after a moment and was replaced by a far more concerned look, and he turned off the faucet and left the dish in the sink. The look on Sherlock’s face was a careful mask, one that made John’s blood run cold.

 

“What kind of ‘oh’ was that?” John asked.

 

“The kind of ‘oh’ you likely think it was,” Sherlock answered, his voice carefully controlled. “I think...you should start timing. Just in case.”

 

“Yeah,” John said slowly, watching Sherlock intently. “I think so, too.”

 

It was like walking on eggshells after that. Sherlock finished eating his lunch with a pensive expression on his face, and John washed the dishes with a nervous haste he’d never applied to the task before. Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop checking his phone for the time, watching every minute pass with intense concentration.

 

After twenty-one minutes of silent agony, Sherlock said ‘oh’ again, and John tapped a button on his phone with a shaking finger.

 

The third one happened twenty minutes later. Then a fourth, and then a fifth, and after the sixth they stopped counting.

 

John called their midwife and updated her on the onset of Sherlock’s labor. She instructed them to cool their heels as much as possible for now, to keep timing the contractions and not doing anything that would expend much energy. “Other than actively having a baby?” Sherlock snarked once John hung up the phone, nervously pacing across the sitting room.

 

“I think she meant, you know, pacing. Or going for a run or building a bookshelf or whatever. You’re supposed to conserve energy.”

 

“I can’t sit down, John, I’m having a baby and also having a panic attack. I think.”

 

“Yeah, same here. Let’s see if we can not do that second thing and focus on the first one.” John walked up to Sherlock and stilled his nervous pacing by putting both hands on his hips from behind, holding him close. “It’s alright. This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for. It’s going to be just fine, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock took John’s hand in his own and slid it under his shirt, pressing his palm against his firm, warm skin. “You’re full of shit,” he said lovingly. “But I appreciate you trying to calm me down. It’s not working, but I appreciate it anyway.”

 

“Well, I don’t think I’d help anything if I said what we’re both thinking right now, so let me try to reassure you because at least that won’t hurt.” John smiled into Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

Hours passed. The vague ‘I want to squat’ feeling that Sherlock had been having for days now only got more intense as the contractions got closer together, pushing the baby down further and closer to his not-quite-ready birth canal. He alternated his time walking slowly and squatting inelegantly, hanging off the backs of furniture heavy enough to stay in place as he dropped his arse to his heels and waggled his knees back and forth. It was just enough to sate that urgent feeling, and made him feel like he was more open, at least.

 

The midwife arrived at half past five in the evening and asked John to help strip the sheets from and remake the bed. More hands made light work and they were done before Sherlock had another contraction, this one bad enough that he made a low noise in his throat until it passed. “Vocalizing is a good sign,” the midwife said, kneading Sherlock’s shoulder. “Comfortable squatting like that?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said, feeling like an ape as he half-dangled from the back of John’s armchair. “But I’m no more comfortable any other way, and this isn’t truly awful.”

 

“Good. If that’s what your body tells you to do, by all means, keep doing it. Squatting is a traditional birthing position in a lot of cultures - it helps the body open up.” She poured gel on her ultrasound wand and pressed it into the low curve of Sherlock’s belly. A tinny swooshing sound emanated from the speakers, and she listened for thirty seconds or so, counting the rapidity of the baby’s heartbeat. “That sounds perfect to me. No signs of stress. Textbook heartbeat. Do you feel like things are progressing?”

 

“I wouldn’t have any idea,” Sherlock said, brow furrowed. “I’ve never had a baby before.”

 

“The contractions are coming closer to one another,” John offered, putting the kettle on - it was an automatic response to a visitor in the flat. “About seven minutes apart now, down from twenty. And they’re lasting a little longer almost every time. He seems to be making progress if you’re measuring that way.” Sherlock begrudgingly offered a confirmatory nod to the midwife.

 

“Wonderful. Sounds just right. I’m going to go get some things set up in your bedroom, I’ll holler if I need anything. Keep timing for me if you can, John, and Sherlock - do whatever feels right.” She patted Sherlock’s shoulder again and retreated down the hallway to their bedroom.

 

“None of this feels _right,_ ” Sherlock said irritably, hauling himself up to stand with a grunt and starting another lap of the sitting room. “I don’t have any idea how it’s supposed to feel, I feel tired and in pain and like the contractions are going to shove her out or pop me open, one of the two. They weren’t bad at first, but the last few have felt like knives trying to pop a balloon. Sharp.”

 

“That’s pretty much textbook labor, love,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better, but she’s almost here now. Our little girl.” He took Sherlock’s other hand and laid it on the hard, tight skin of his belly, reminding him what all of this was for.

 

Sherlock softened slightly and took a deep breath, letting it out and relaxing his shoulders some. He nodded and looked up at John, his expression clearing - some of the frustration and pain ebbing from his face and being replaced with a slightly chastised smile. “You’re right. Of course you’re right,” he said, palm rubbing flat on the spot where John had placed it. “Just need to stay focused on the end goal. Meeting our daughter.”

 

John stood up on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Can’t wait.”

 

As the contractions worsened, growing closer together and stronger, Sherlock couldn’t help but make noise. At first, low groans were enough, but when he started to whine high in his throat, John could feel things becoming more urgent. Panic was batting at the edges of both of their composures, and Sherlock felt anxious and scared. “It - _really_ hurts,” he panted at the end of a hard contraction, his thighs shaking so hard in the squat that he was worried he might fall over.

 

“It sounds like it does. Do you want to try the shower, and see if hot water helps?”

 

“No,” Sherlock whined, and then, “Yes, but I need help standing up.” He sounded pitiful and pained.

 

“I’ll help you, love,” John said, taking Sherlock’s arms and helping him stand. Sherlock made a noise of discomfort and shifted his weight from foot to foot, a move John recognized as the pressure of their daughter’s descent making Sherlock’s nerves smart and his bones ache. “C’mon, into the shower. It’ll help.”

 

Sherlock let John strip him out of his clothes and help him into the shower, where he stood under the hot water trying not to cry. John dimmed the lights to give Sherlock some sense of privacy and peace. Before long he let out another high wail and reached out for John, dragging him half under the spray of water to cling tight to him. John, mindless of the water, held Sherlock close and murmured soothing things to him, rocking back and forth.

 

“I want it to be over,” Sherlock whimpered, clutching John’s now-wet shirt.

 

“It’s almost over, love, it’s almost over. You’re almost there.” John kissed his cheek.

 

John held him through the lull between contractions and then through the next contraction, stroking Sherlock’s wet hair and trying to bring him any amount of comfort at all. Sherlock was panting and whining through a hard contraction when he felt something pop inside him, and then felt a hot rush of liquid, warmer than the shower water, run down his thighs. “My waters,” he said, unable to keep the panic from his voice as the contraction waned. “I think - I think they -“

 

John looked down at the yellowish fluid washing down the drain and called for the midwife. She squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “You’re exactly right, that’s just on time. Things might move a little quicker now.”

 

They did. Almost immediately the contractions started to come almost one on top of the other, and the need to squat became not just urgent, but a necessity. He dropped almost to his knees in the shower, taking John with him, and made a guttural noise John had never heard before as a contraction gripped him.

 

Sherlock was almost too far gone to notice when John turned off the shower and toweled him off, helped him stand on shaky legs and stagger heavily to the bedroom. He paused at the bedside to squat again and make that same deep, primal noise, his whole body gripped by the muscle spasm that held his uterus in an iron grip. John helped him onto the bed and let him squat there again, squaring up in front of him so that Sherlock could hold any part of John to brace himself and do what his body told him to do.

 

Another hard contraction and Sherlock was pushing before he knew what he was doing. The need to bear down was too intense to ignore, and he perched on the balls of his feet in a deep squat, groaning loudly as he bore down. He rounded his back and shoved, every inch of his body tense and working to expel.

 

“I can feel her head,” the midwife said, her voice muzzy in Sherlock’s ears. “Keep going, you’re just right. Push with the contraction and stop when it stops.”

 

“John,” Sherlock whined, his voice plaintive, pained and tired. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say, but he needed John’s attention. He said his name again and John kissed his chapped lips, holding Sherlock’s face in both hands.

 

“I’ve got you, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, love, you’ve got me right here for you. It’s alright.” He kissed Sherlock’s damp, sweaty forehead and brushed his wet curls back.

 

“John,” Sherlock repeated, trembling and pushing again. He clutched John’s upper arms and bore down with all his strength. He dropped inelegantly to his knees and spread his legs further, quelling the shaking in his limbs and channeling all his strength into pushing.

 

He felt her moving inside him, felt her head spreading him open and the thickness of the rest of her body stretching him. He felt the burning of his body stretching wide to allow her to pass, and squeezed his eyes shut so hard that tears leaked out the corners. At the end of a long, hard push that left Sherlock gasping for breath, he felt her head stretch him so wide he thought he’d surely tear open and then he felt it slide out, felt the warmth of her head as it brushed his thigh, and he choked at the feeling of it.

 

John swore and blinked hard, trying to stop the tears of awe as he caught a glimpse of his daughter’s face, squashed and purple and covered in the slick of Sherlock’s body. “Hey,” he said tearfully, smearing a kiss onto Sherlock’s cheek, “Hey, oh my god, she’s right there. I can see her, love. You’re almost done, darling, she’s so close.”

 

Sherlock, despite his pain, managed a breathless smile. “Give her to me,” he panted, “the second she’s born.” John nodded in hasty agreement and kneaded Sherlock’s shoulder roughly, urging his husband to work just a little more, so that they could finally, _finally_ meet the daughter they’d been awaiting for so long.

 

Sherlock gathered the loose edges of his strength and put everything he had into the next push, straining so hard that his vision went slightly black and he shook with the effort. He felt her shift inside him, turning so her shoulders could pass, felt that agonizing burn again and shouted with a raw, hoarse throat, and kept pushing, pushing until she moved again and moved down and moved out and was born.

 

She cried the instant she left his body, and so did Sherlock.

 

The midwife picked her up and handed her between Sherlock’s legs to John, who touched her for just a fleeting second before putting her in Sherlock’s waiting arms, cradled against his swollen stomach which had been her home for so many long months. She squalled like she was trying to wake the dead, loud enough that her cries made Sherlock’s ears ring.

 

And she was beautiful. He clutched her to himself, holding her close and secure, counting her fingers and toes and _watching,_ not feeling, her move her chubby little legs and wave her little arms for the first time. She had a smattering of dark hair and what was absolutely John’s nose nestled between Sherlock’s own high cheekbones, her mouth wide open as she cried.

 

Only when her cord was cut by John’s steady hand and once she was wrapped in a warm, soft towel did she quiet, resting on Sherlock’s aching chest and sleeping already. Close to her mother’s heart, hearing again its comfortable, reliable beat, she was lulled to sleep, unaware of the bustle of activity surrounding her arrival. Sherlock was reclined on a pile of pillows, recently delivered of an eight-pound, six-ounce infant and her accompanying placenta, sponge-bathed and exhausted and watching his daughter with rapt adoration.

 

John sat on the bed next to them both, leaned over on one arm and watching her sleep. “How did you make this?” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “You _made_ her. You made an entire new person with just your body. She’s _amazing._ ”

 

“She’s got you as a father. How could she be anything other than amazing?” Sherlock looked up when he felt something hot and damp fall on his shoulder, and saw John trying to conceal a fresh wave of tears. “Oh, John, don’t tell me you’re crying over that.”

 

“Shut up,” John said, cuffing Sherlock’s shoulder terribly gently. “You’ve just given me a daughter and called me amazing by association, and I was in the middle of trying to compliment you. Can’t you just let me compliment you for once?”

 

“I suppose I can let it happen, but just this once.” Sherlock smiled and adjusted his position, leaning into John and his gentle, careful embrace. “Just this once.”


End file.
